Logs:One Man Celebrations
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 13 March, 2015 |
| Who: Drex, Faryn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Faryn comes upon Drex drinking and, ostensibly, celebrating alone in the loft of the stables. They share a drink, discuss the sea, and examine lifestyles. |
| Where: Stables, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 4, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
  |
>---< Stables, High Reaches Weyr >-------------------------------------------< Taking advantage of a natural overhang in the side of the mountain for its roof, this building boasts sturdy stone construction braced by beams of tough-as-nails skybroom. Just inside a pair of broad doors, the ceiling rises a full two stories high for the full length and half the width of the building. Beneath the overhang, wide windows admit light and more fresh air, while opposite is the second-story hayloft. The stables' main focus, however, is the double rows of stalls that line the walls below: one large stall serving as tack room, the rest housing a remarkable variety of beasts. (+views) -----------------------------< Active Players >----------------------------- Drex M 18 6'2 muscled, black hair, brown eyes Faryn F 22 5'4" Lean, Brown hair, Brown eyes This time of evening, the runners are settled in and mostly quiet. A few are shifting nervously, stamping and restless, perhaps in reaction to the presence of a certain sailor in the upper loft. "One for the Morning Glory~ two for the sweet brown brew~" there's a significant pause here, the sound of sloshing liquid, and then the tune picks up, "Three for the man who'll stand his round~ and four for the love of you, me girls," another pause, a burp, and then: "Four for the love of yooooouuuuu~" It's not the most out of tune song, but it's not exactly harper-quality singing.
There's a thud, and the sound of swearing, and then a head peeks over the edge of the loft down at her, Drex's expression wary, though fading almost immediately when he doesn't recognize her. "Eh?" is his blank response, clearly confused.
"Aint nobody but me, and this bottom of rum," Drex declares, with a slosh of liquid as he holds the bottle aloft. "I'm celebrating." By himself. In a loft. Singing to runners. Apparently he doesn't think this needs any explaining, though. "I'm sure the runners will get over it," with a sudden grin, before he pauses. "What're you doing here?" like he's trying to turn the interrogation her way. Her expression remains at least distantly amused, even as she steps cautiously back to prevent being rained on, should his gestures become too grand. As the sober party, she circumvents his reversal by returning, "And what, praytell, are you celebrating?" without offering an answer on her own presence. "You know... the sea." It doesn't seem to be a deliberately vague answer, and yet it is at the same time. Drex straightens. "Probably got enough to share, if you wanted," he offers, cautiously, retreating back to reclaim one of the hay bales. "I know of it," Faryn says, equally as vague. She even knows celebrations of the sea. "Still, what's it done worth celebrating this time?" She hesitates, and although her real purpose for arriving has it's neck stretched out above the stall gate, is almost prancing with anticipation of an evening race, Faryn hesitates at the offer before scrambling the ladder with the skill and agility of someone who does it often. The way Drex reclines on the hay suggests this is a regular haunt of his, rather comfortable. "Gonna be back on it soon, with our ship, with my best friend. Been too long," he's regarding Faryn openly as she reaches his level, and with a grin, offers the bottle. No glasses, or wiping the top, or anything so civil as that. "Mmm." If she's daunted by his lack of manners, she doesn't show it; she wipes it herself and takes a companionable swig, passing it back. For her part, she perches on the top of a bale, easily pulling her legs up and showing off the straight-spined posture of someone who rides often. "Well. Congratulations, then. Never did do well on boats, myself." With a grunt, Drex corrects: "Ships," like that distinction matters a lot. Taking the bottle back, he gives her a once-over. "Don't recognize you. You one of those... runner fanciers? Seen 'em in here occasionally," he gestures vaguely as if to encompass the stables. "Beastcrafter," she provides, mockingly emphatic. "Apprentice. Faryn." She doesn't uncurl to offer her hand, just studies him quietly for a moment. "I do fancy them, though. More than ships. Not that I didn't try." Diverting the conversation back before it can settle, she says, "When will you have your ship, then, to warrant such a...large celebration?" "Huh." Drex fails, or maybe forgets, to offer his own name or profession in turn, though the latter can probably be inferred already. He does, however, remember to hand the bottle back towards her after he's taken another gulp. "Itsy was told spring, so it shouldn't be long now. Few sevens, maybe. You used to sail?" he squints at her again, surprised and, perhaps, reevaluating. "Tried." She reaches for the bottle, pulls it back with slender fingers, swallows with decidedly less caution than the first. "They tried their damnedest. Seasick. Never found my legs." Faryn hitches one shoulder in a shrug. "Runners suit me. Faster, too. Where will you go?" The bottle makes its way back. "Seasick?!" The very idea of being unable to be on a ship is clearly horrific to Drex. "I'm sorry," he says, with genuine sentiment. "Aint right. Guess some people are bound to be landlubbers." He takes the bottle, lifts it to her in silent toast (or maybe commiseration?), before taking a gulp. "We do trade routes between High Reaches Hold, Tillek and Ista, usually. Before," he corrects. "Aint sure what we'll do this time." Faryn's smile is wan and, just maybe, a little sad. "I suppose so. We get our cards, my mum told me. She was a sailor, before she Impressed. She loved riding, but I think she always missed it. It gets a piece of you, I guess." A small tilt of the head. "It wrecked, then? Your ship?" "Can't imagine not being a sailor," Drex says, probably not really helping and likely unaware of the sadness in Faryn's expression. "Aye. In that big storm in Tillek a Turn ago." He hands back the bottle. "The one that goldrider died in," he adds, like that's the only way weyrfolk remember the event. After a thoughtful pass of hands through his hair, "Can't see giving up the sea for a dragon." The look he gives Faryn is kind of quizzical, like she might be able to explain. "Oh." Faryn's word is nearly a gasp at the statement. "No, Sully is lovely. But Threads were falling and he chose her. Ista did. I don't know what pulled her from the sea, but I know the sea never pulled her back." Her brows pull close, knitting in concentration as she tries to explain something she doesn't understand or know how to express. "Maybe only dragonriders understand. I think she fostered me at Tillek hoping I would sail in her stead, but...." She gestures dismissively. "Maybe it's just that dragons are more forgiving." Drex grunts a little at that, but doesn't disagree; the sea is unforgiving. Still; "I asked one once. They just jump on whatever dragon they want to go places. They don't even have any loyalty. Can't imagine just going on any ship. Gotta be my ship, you know?" he looks at her, like he expects her, at least, to understand. Almost in answer, Faryn's gaze darts towards the gloom of the stalls below, where the runners who are still awake can be heard snorting softly in their sleep, or knocking restlessly against their stalls. "I think you put more into a ship," she finally says, watching him again. "It's more of you than a dragon or a runner, yeah? You work on a ship, or at it. You don't work alongside it." Another shrug, half-hearted. "It's comparing redfruit and citron." "It's your life," Drex agrees, with a vehemence, and, too, a surprise at her understanding. "They don't understand it," with a flicker towards the Weyr-at-large. "Nice to meet someone who does." After a beat, "I'm Drex. Itsy's my partner. Can't miss her, with the hat and the hair," he grins. The smile that comes to Faryn's face is genuine and rare. "Tillek taught me enough, even if I never found my legs. Well met, Drex." An insistent whinny from below catches her attention, and now she finally lets her legs fall from where they're drawn up onto the bale, her booted feet thumping muted against the boards. "I hope to see you again before you set off. But if not, good luck on your travels. If you'll excuse me, my ride is getting impatient." She jerks her chin in the vague direction of the runner making a fuss. Drex gestures, as if encouraging her, but it turns into a reach for the bottle as she departs. "Well met," he replies in turn with another toast-and-drink in her wake. Faryn nods, and soon is scampering down the ladder. There is the sound of prepping: riding gear clanking together and the stall opening. The clomping of hooves, the creaking hinges of the huge doors, a shaft of light streaking through the stables, and then she's gone. |
Leave A Comment